Page 35 of Stolen Rival
A server makes her way toward us, and Patrick orders another round of drinks.
“Actually, could I have a mojito please?”
Cillian rolls his lips like he’s fighting the urge to smile, the server glances at Patrick for his permission, and after a brief nod, she’s on her way. Is this how it’s going to be now? Havingto get permission fromhimfor every goddamn thing? That’s not going to work for me.
As our drinks arrive, a guy standing nearby loses his balance and knocks into our server. She lunges forward, and one of the bottles of beer tips over, covering Patrick’s expensive suit with at least half the contents.
“For fuck’s sake.” His voice isn’t quiet, and several people around us flinch. He’s on his feet, patting down his suit jacket. His face darkens, and I’m almost certain someone’s about to lose their head.
I leap up from my chair, darting between the server and the now spluttering, clumsy idiot who knocked into her. I hand what’s left of the drinks to Cillian and send the red-faced, overly apologetic server away.
Curious heads turn our way. Patrick wasn’t wrong, everyone’s staring at us like they all know who he is, and they’re waiting for him to decapitate this man in front of their eyes. Even Cillian looks unsure about whether or not Patrick’s going to blow his stack.
I place a hand on Patrick’s shirt, right over his heart. The thump-thump of his angry organ hammering against my palm does little to quell my anxiety. “No harm done,” I say loudly enough for both Patrick and the guy in my fiancé’s crosshairs to hear. I flash him a wide smile. “Be a little more careful around all these drinks, yeah?”
He nods, stuttering and mumbling about how sorry he is while taking a large step back.
“It’s fine. No big deal.” I drop my voice. “It’s not like it’s a thousand-euro suit or anything.”
Patrick or Cillian snorts, probably Cillian, because Patrick’s still coiled like a snake ready to strike under my palm.
The man to my left doesn’t seem to get the picture, but the server returns with a stack of napkins, which I accept gratefully. “Leave.” I grind the word out between clenched and still smiling teeth, and he finally gets the hint.
Wad of serviettes in hand, I turn to face the biggest problem of them all. The smoldering, brutal Mahoney. He looks like a disgruntled pelican, waves of rage rippling off him and sucking the air out of the room.
His gaze follows the retreating man accompanied by a glaring scowl, but I cup his cheek and turn his head to me. “Eyes on me. We don’t need to make the international news over a lick of beer falling onto your snooty suit.” I pat his cheek condescendingly with one hand and go to work blotting up the couple of chugs of beer already seeping into the fabric.
“You’ve done that before,” murmurs Patrick. His temperature has come down from a hundred and twenty-five degrees to a solid eighty. I’ll take it. He’s staring at me with what can’t possibly be awe in his eyes, but I’ll take that, too.
“Wiped spilled alcohol off an overpriced suit? No, it’s my first time doing that.” I throw him a playful wink. If I can get him down to a solid sixty, we might all make it out of here without bloodshed.
“No, I mean calmed someone down.”
Have I calmed him down? He still looks pretty mad to me. I shrug. “Oh. Yeah, once or twice.”
His gaze stays on my face while I do my best to clean him up. “This is going to need to go to the dry cleaner.”
Cillian hands me a glass of water. I guess he’s gotten beer out of a suit before. I dab the stains lightly with the cool liquid. “Or Maeve might be able to get it out using Fairy liquid, or maybe vinegar or hydrogen peroxide.” I try to recall every pieceof information I’ve ever read about stains. “But that might be for blood, now that I think about it.”
Patrick purses his lips, but not into a frown. He’s either fighting a smile or constipated, and since the man never smiles, he must need the bathroom.
After another couple of presses against his expensive fabric, he feels relaxed enough that it’s safe for me to stand back and no one will die. But what the fuck do I know?
We’re barely past the first catastrophe of the day and back in our seats when a nervous-looking man wearing a suit shuffles in our direction, a large gift bag in his hand. He clears his throat. “Ah. Mr. Mahoney, it’s a pleasure to have you with us this evening, sir.” He reaches out his hand as Patrick stands.
Cillian doesn’t, but I take my lead from the man who has my life in the palm of his hand, and I do, too.
“Mr. Farrell, good to see you.”
“And you, Mr. Mahoney.” His whole face is red, even the tips of his ears, and he doesn’t make eye contact with Patrick. He’s talking to Patrick’s shoes. Is he afraid Patrick will turn him to stone, if he looks him in the eye?
Wouldn’t be surprised. I get the distinct impression that every poor soul in this room is afraid of the man I’m keeping company with.
“I’d like to introduce you to my fiancée, Sorcha McCarthy.” Patrick gestures in my direction. “Sorcha, this is Mickey Farrell, owner of the Serpents.”
Mr. Farrell eagerly shakes my hand before handing me a gift bag. “A pleasure. We thought you might want to match your husband-to-be. We gifted him one of these last season.”
I open the bag and find a lime-green Serpents jersey. When I lift it out, my stomach sinks. It’s beencustom made and Mahoney is emblazoned across the shoulders. Gritting my teeth, I school my face, trying not to betray the fact I want to wrap this jersey around Patrick’s throat until every last breath slips from his body.
